Ghostwalk by JT Wilson

[mad_docs_of_lit]

(I)

“Of course, Coventry is one of the most historical cities in the country, so it’s inevitable that within its walls walk all manner of ghosts and ghoulies.”

Jack Andrews rolled his eyes, leaning against the wall of the underpass. This was standard patter on a ghostwalk, he knew, but still, it stretched credibility somewhat. Yes, Coventry was in the Domesday book, it was where Roundhead prisoners were sent in the Civil War (or was it Cavaliers?) but still, the implication so far had been that every building older than 30 years old in Coventry turned into the House On Haunted Hill at midnight. No doubt the host of this ghostwalk fancied himself as a television presenter or possibly a more modest role as a tour guide, and was hamming it up in case anyone from the local tourist board or television centre was present.

He wasn’t sure why he’d come. Boredom on a Wednesday night was the only plausible explanation. One Wednesday night was very much like another, he supposed. Even then, though, there’s always the telly, or the football usually. Historical interest, he reasoned- he’d had a fair idea of some of the history of the city already, but learning more was never a bad thing and it was probably an interesting thing to discuss in the pub.

Did Jack Andrews believe in ghosts, though? Did he really? Well, maybe not: some of these stories were transparently bogus, based on supposition and the powers of suggestion, impressionable people with over-active imaginations chasing shadows and tilting at windmills. But then, who knew? He certainly wasn’t going to rule anything out - to do such a thing would be tempting fate, would just invite ironic backfiring and would inevitably lead to his being eaten by a possessed house or something ridiculous. He regarded UFO stories in the papers with a sort of sneering disdain - mainly these stories were, to Jack, attention-seeking lunatics with outlandish claims- but he was more cautious about ruling out the prospect of life on other planets. Even religion was the same: you were being asked to believe in something with no scientific evidence apart from the ‘miracles’, Jesus appearing in toast or a Virgin Mary statue crying blood or whatever. Did he believe the margarine Messiah, the bloody sculpture? Of course not: but best not to rule out the afterlife, just in case it turned out that there was something after death which he hadn’t prepared for.

To his right, Jack could hear a bottle smashing, glass no doubt littering the subway like it always did. He had no idea who would have done it- none of these guys looked like they were secretly drinking. He followed the direction of the sound only to find- nothing. Well, perhaps it was coming from the other side of the wall.

Enough leaning against the subway wall. Who knew what he’d end up with if he kept that up. He hauled himself up to standing again. His back was wet, he realised. God only knew what substance he must have leant in: the possibilities were endless, he supposed. Whatever it was, he hoped he could wash it off.

(II)

The way Jack saw it, the way he understood it at least, ghostwalks fell into two categories. One was the Addams Family, pantomime “this here is the foulest group I ever did see” campy performance, featuring chain-rattling and out-of-work actors jumping out of darkened doorways. The sort of nonsense that was popular with students, drunks and kids. The other was the “this is a scientific investigation based on paranormal evidence” job which he seemed to be on now, a sort of combination of informative tourist walk and obviously bogus story-telling dressed up as historical fact. That said, he wasn’t entirely sure that this one did fall into the latter category. The host, or presenter, or guide, whatever you called him, was certainly talking about being a psychic and how he’d developed this with a team of research experts based on articles in the Coventry Evening Telegraph from the 1490s and all that.

But on the other hand, there were quirks like the glass breaking and now disembodied voices which seemed to be everywhere around him. They weren’t saying anything particularly - low murmurs and the occasional shrill laugh, certainly nothing menacing- but they were echoing off the walls of the underpass and yet there was nobody there. Jack was lingering at the back of the group, but the voices seemed to be right next to him. Worse, nobody around him seemed to be reacting to it.

He wondered whether he was just suffering hallucinations again. He remembered that he had had a similar experience when he had returned from war in-

(in???)

-in his early twenties. Sitting in the armchair of his front room, he’d still heard the sounds of planes screaming and gunshot fire, still trod the carpet carefully in case of landmines. Perhaps, he reasoned, this was what was happening now: certainly it would explain why nobody else could hear it.

Anyway, the ghostwalk. He’d missed the early part of it. No doubt it started at the Golden Cross, where the bodies of two murdered girls had been kept by police for examination in the Victorian era, and where the screams of the girls could still apparently be heard reverberating through the pub (although they weren’t murdered there). Possibly it had then moved on to the area where Satan was claimed to have made his second visit to Coventry, where he was run out of a school and hid up a tree. Of course, his third visit to Coventry was on the town planning committee after World War Two, Jack thought sardonically, examining the orange and brown tiling of the underpass. He’d joined them at The Old Windmill, a Tudor pub which was – yes - previously a windmill. There was some story about an old barmaid who’d fallen from the roof while changing a barrel or something, Jack had missed half of it, and then they’d proceeded past the theatre, which was in a state of permanent redevelopment, and to the underpass where they found themselves now.

But what had happened at the underpass? Why had they stopped here?

Jack shifted uncomfortably. His back was still wet.

(III)

“You’re wondering why I’ve brought you here, no doubt, to what appears to be a fairly generic underpass, relatively modern build,” the guide was saying.

The guide’s name was Pete and he had variously explained to the guests that he was a psychic, a meditation expert and a parapsychologist. Maybe he was all of those things, Jack had no way of telling, but one thing was for sure: the guy was a fruit. From the immaculately-coiffured hair to the nails which were longer than any real man should have to the crisp white shirt, no tie, Jack knew Pete was a queer even if he didn’t go on to mention his ‘partner’ in cryptically vague terms. Jack wasn’t sure whether this was the sort of thing that he’d fought a war for, but on the other hand, who was paying for this puff to carry on doing this as a line of employment? Who was the real fool, eh?

A set of footsteps interrupted Jack’s homophobic ruminations, quickening in pace as they approached him. Jack froze. The footsteps came closer, a matter of feet away now, the fall of the feet slowing as they reached- reached what, their prey? A ridiculous notion, probably just kids trying to scupper the ghostwalk-

Then why aren’t you turning around?

-and besides if he turned around what was he expecting to see? Would it quench his fear and mistrust or just exacerbate it? If he turned around was there anyone he’d see who he felt comfortable with seeing or, or anything, and in any case it was irrelevant now because it was there, the touch of ice on his neck-

He turned around. There was nobody there.

Jack was completely creeped out now. He turned back and for a moment he couldn’t see the ghostwalkers or Pete at all and he felt completely disorientated. The dampness at his back was not subsiding and a pain, shooting up his spine, had joined in. He put his hand on the small of his back and drew himself fully upright again, straightening his shoulders as he stood up and drawing himself back to the ghostwalk. Happily the queer had undertaken a melodramatic pause so long that Jack hadn’t missed anything.

“Well, there’s a story from the 1960s here in Coventry, not long after this underpass was built. A story that made people think that the idea of underpasses was inherently dangerous.”

“Stop showboating and get on with it,” muttered Jack. Wait, the 1960s?!

“In fact, however, the episode was actually outside The Old Windmill on Spon St. There was an incident between a veteran from World War II and some young men from Spon End. Words were had, shall we say, and it led to the veteran being stabbed. Now, this fellow was living in Hillfields and he actually managed to get from The Old Windmill all the way here before finally collapsing. It’s a sad tale.
“Now we’re told that residents have witnessed him continuing to walk this same path ever since. In fact, we’ve actually been lucky enough for him to join us on a couple of ghostwalks in the last few weeks. Now. I don’t know if any of you are of a psychic bent but if you look just behind you, you’ll be able to spot him.”

Jack looked behind him. This would undoubtedly be the ghost that had been pursuing him all night, that had smashed the glass, that had murmured in his ear, that had run behind him. He’d never considered himself particularly psychic but he had felt all of those things, hadn’t he?
Yet there was nothing there.

“I see him! I see him!” a woman cried, pointing several metres to the left of Jack. Jack followed her pointing but again, there was nothing there.

“You don’t see him, dear, that’s the reflection of the cars. Here. Just look that way. That’s it.”

For a moment, Jack was sure that Pete was pointing directly at him.

“What’s his name, this ghost we’re seeing?” asked the phoney psychic lady.

“Jack Andrews.”

The dim cocoon of suspicion blossomed into the horror of realisation for Jack. The wet back, the fact he’d only come in at The Old Windmill, the sudden pain- it wasn’t that he was being pursued by ghosts, it was his own past repeating, and-

“It’s tragic for the ghosts, really,” Pete was saying as Jack collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath and clawing at the pavement, all hope of dignity eroded. “I mean, they’re souls that can’t find peace, because their lives were taken so suddenly. So they’re stuck, really. Repeating their deaths over and over again. Forced to walk the same loop night after night...”

Suddenly everything went black.

“I can’t do this again!” Jack screamed. “Don’t make me go back! It’s not- it’s not bloody fair!”

Then there was nothing but silence.

(IV)

“Of course, Coventry is one of the most historical cities in the country, so it’s inevitable that within its walls walk all manner of ghosts and ghoulies.”

Jack Andrews rolled his eyes, leaning against the wall of the underpass. This was standard patter on a ghostwalk, he knew, but still, it stretched credibility somewhat. Yes, Coventry was in the Domesday book, it was where Roundhead prisoners were sent in the Civil War (or was it Cavaliers?) but still, the implication so far had been that every building older than 30 years old in Coventry turned into the House On Haunted Hill at midnight. No doubt the host of this ghostwalk fancied himself as a television presenter or possibly a more modest role as a tour guide, and was hamming it up in case anyone from the local tourist board or television centre was present.

He wasn’t sure why he’d come. Boredom on a Thursday night was the only plausible explanation. One Thursday night was very much like another, he supposed.


Copyright

JT Wilson

"Ghostwalk"

© 2011, JT Wilson
Self Published
mad.docs.of.lit[at]gmail.com

+Buy 'Cemetery Drive' by JT Wilson here.